Argue.

My soul needs a breath of fresh air.

To be stripped down,

beaten and hung over

the clothes line nestled

in the overgrown lawn

speckled with

little piles of cat shit.

Summer warm wind blessings abound.

It's 3:33 in the afternoon and my death grip,

still tense, fingering those

tiny holes in your Swiss cheese mind.

I'm too tired to argue but

that's all we ever do.

I need a sturdy suitcase and

a one way ticket.

A suitcase with nice things to

wear and shoes ready for walking.

Walking to interviews, under microscopes,

furrowed brows, firm handshakes,

yellowed teeth and plenty of,

"We'll get back to you."

But sir, I want you to know

that you're fucking

with a heavyweight.

I was born that way. 

Lighting fires for fun and

holding doors open

for the unappreciative.


Raymond Strickland

July 7, 2017

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gypsyrose's picture

“Lighting fires for fun

“Lighting fires for fun and

holding doors open 

for the unappreciative.“- love that. 


reading all that you have posted,

really great stuff!

 

 

allets's picture

A Dynamic Write

from the poet's voice inside & beneath several layers of soul tissue, lurking there suddenly appearing in the fingers and the imagination and reality and finally, out on the page. U r a fine writer - this poem is the proof! - sincerely, Lady A